Passion's Mistral (13 page)

While holding his cock against his belly, she gently scratched her fingernails from the frenulum on the

underside of his shaft, down his balls then turned her hand so she could slide her middle finger all the way

to his anus.

“Shit!” Julian gasped.

“You’d better not,” Silkie warned, inserting the tip of her middle fingernail into the puckered opening.

He grabbed for her but she swatted his hands away.

“No,” she said. “You are mine to do with as I please, cowboy. Now behave.”

He was at her mercy and seemed to resign himself to the delicious torment as she dragged her fingernails

up his scrotum, flicking the taut ridges of his scrotal sac. Palming his rigid member between her hands,

she rubbed downward, alternating in a back and forth motion then upward again, the slickness of the

cream causing little friction but an intense sensation in her lover that had his breath coming in pants. While

wrapping the fingers of her left hand around the shaft, she delicately dug the fingernail of her right index

finger into the slit.

He groaned and she could feel his body quivering.

“My, my,” she said in a husky voice. “You are leaking like a sieve, cowboy!”

His juices were mixing with the cream on her hands, adding more lubrication to her ministrations.

Cupping his balls in the palm of her right hand, she rolled them gently, ignoring his moans as she turned

her attention to the seminal vesicles on the sides of his sac, using her thumb and middle finger to stroke

them first in tandem then in opposing movement.

“Silkie,” he warned in a low growl that seemed to come from the depths of his chest.

She rose up on one knee and used the other to push his legs apart. When she was sitting between his

spread thighs, she ordered him to put his feet on her shoulders.

“What?” he asked, lifting his head to look at her through the darkness.

“Do as you’re told, cowboy,” Silkie demanded. “And no backtalk, mister!”

He hesitated for a second or two then braced his ankles over her shoulders.

“Men have a G-spot, too,” she said. “Did you know that?”

He didn’t get a chance to answer for she leaned forward, bending his knees toward his chest. His ass

was off the mattress, arched toward her, as exposed as he could ever remember being. Not sure he liked

this, he was about to protest when Silkie Trevor made him hers forever.

Her right thumb moved under that super-sensitive area between the base of his scrotum and anus. She

stroked, searching for the dimple and when she found it, pressed it softly for the count of ten then relaxed

the pressure before applying it again.

Julian arched his hips up as though he had been struck by lightning. He was groaning, the sounds coming

out with each expulsion of breath. His gasp was loud, his reaction instant when the middle finger of her

left hand slipped into his anus and wiggled playfully.

“Damn!” he shrilled. “I can’t…. I’m going to…”

As her finger probed deeper into his anal opening, she used her other hand to grip the head of his shaft

and begin rotating it from side to side as though she were turning a faucet on and off, pulling the shaft

upward as she manipulated him.

He came as explosively as any man she had ever been with. The hot spurt of his cum hit her palm and ran

down her wrist. She laughed and, when he shuddered one final time, reached for the towel she had

brought from the bathroom when she had gone after the cream. While he lay twitching from the aftermath

of his orgasm, she gently cleaned him, wiping the residual juices from his flesh and hers.

“When was the last time you got laid, cowboy?” she asked.

“Months,” he whispered.

“I can believe it,” she said. “You were chock full, baby.”

She would have thought he would fall asleep—for that had been her experience with sated men in the

past. She was content to allow him to rest for she instinctively knew that when he turned his full attention

to satisfying her, she would be fulfilled as she never had been. Stretching out beside him, placing her hand

on his still-heaving chest, she had resigned herself to wait.

But waiting was the last thing on Julian St. John’s mind.

And surprise was the name of the game.

Stunned when her lover sat up and clapped his hands, she had no time to wonder what he was about for

the branches above her came to twinkling life as tiny lights blinked on in random pattern through the

silken leaves.

“Oh,” Silkie breathed, staring up into what looked like fireflies flitting through the carved branches. She

was mesmerized by the display, following the movement with her eyes as first one light then two then

three flickered to catch her attention. There was just enough light from the branches for her to see her

lover’s handsome face peering down at her. His dark hair glistened beneath the shimmer of the lights in

the branches.

“All my life,” he said, “I have wanted a woman who wanted my pleasure as much as her own.”

“Then lie beside me and let me hold you,” she said softly.

“No,” he countered. “Now it’s my turn.”

As the imitation fireflies blinked through the leaves above her, Silkie discovered what true sexual

expertise could be. Begrudgingly she thanked Celeste Dubois.

His hands were like rough silk as they dragged over her tender flesh. He stroked here, probed there,

flicked in another spot. His palms soothed over her belly, cupped her breasts and his thumbs brought her

nipples to hard little pebbles. His fingers threaded through her hair, massaged her scalp. His short

fingernails grazed her bellybutton and gently spiraled down into the shallow indention, tickling the sensitive

folds. He used the backs of his hands to trace the flesh on her rib cage and hips and down her shapely

thighs. He centered the palm of his right hand against the heat at the juncture of her thighs and held it

there as she wiggled against him.

The heat from his hand was scalding her, bringing her juices, causing a deep stirring in her belly. Just as

he had done, she reached up behind her and wrapped her fingers around the lowest branch.

“Open your legs,” he whispered.

Like a raw recruit jumping at the command of her drill instructor, Silkie jerked her legs apart—reveling in

the feel for his hand was still pressed tightly to her.

The moment his middle finger slid into her, she arched her head back and squeezed her eyes shut.

Deprived of seeing his handsome face, she immersed herself in the sensation his finger was creating

between her vaginal folds. That strong length had gone unerringly to her G-spot and was rubbing it

gently.

“Imagine my cock inside you,” he said, using his free hand to pluck at the nipple of her right breast.

“Imagine it deep inside you. Hard as a piece of smooth iron, warm as liquid fire.”

Silkie moaned, lifting her hips toward his conquering hand.

“Can you feel the hot semen oozing into your core?”

She bit her lower lip, nodding as best she could with her head thrown back.

He jerked his finger inside her. “Do you feel the life in that stiff cock?”

“Umm,” she groaned and flicked her tongue over her upper lip.

“He wants to go deeper into you. He wants to reach the very center of your pleasure.”

He circled her G-spot with the pad of his fingertip then eased out of her to rub her clit.

“Outside?” he said, fingering her clitoris, “or inside?” Once more, his finger found the blazing sensitivity

on the roof of her vagina. “Outside? Inside?”

He was turning her into a boneless mass of quivering flesh. She was panting, moaning, shuddering as he

alternated the areas of his attention.

Then he lowered his lips to her breast and drew the nipple into his mouth, capturing it gently with his

teeth, worrying it softly and with exquisite care.

“Sean!” she shrieked, clamping her legs against his invading hand.

He felt her vagina expand as though she was trying to thrust his fingers from inside her then the silken

walls quivered in a succession of tightening and release that almost felt as though she was attempting to

swallow his hand, to snatch it up inside her cunt.

He pushed his fingers deeper, striving to touch her very womb, and the intensity of her orgasm brought a

scream from her throat. Knowing he had not hurt her but had given her a climax to equal—or

exceed—any she had ever experienced, he smiled, keeping his fingers deep inside her.

Silkie shuddered one last time then fell limp, her head lolling to one side, her chest heaving as she

struggled to draw air into lungs she had purposely denied for the duration of her orgasm. Her legs relaxed

then splayed open, leaving her helpless and exposed.

“Mine,” he said, easing his fingers from inside her.

“Yours,” she whispered in reply.

He gathered her into his arms, stretched his long body out beside hers and placed a chaste kiss on her

forehead.

“Sleep, my lady,” he said.

As soul-numbing peace settled over Silkie Trevor, she could hear his strong, steady heartbeat. She could

feel his warm flesh molded to hers. She could smell the spent juices of their bodies mixed with the heady

cologne he wore. She could sense the pleasure he felt for she knew her own had given her a glimpse into

heaven.

Long into the night as the woman in his arms slept soundly, contentedly, Julian St. John stared up into the

flickering lights of the tree headboard. Gone was the peace of the moment that had given him more

pleasure than he had ever thought possible. In its place were plans on how he would keep this woman

safe and with him forever.

Celeste Dubois threw the porcelain vase against the wall as hard as she could. Her black eyes were

flashing with fury, her scarlet lips skinned back over pearly white teeth that were clenched tightly

together. Digging half-moon wounds into her palms, her manicured nails drew blood.

“I’ll be damned if I’ll let that bitch take him away from me!” she swore.

“What would you like me to do?” Pierce Umsted, her personal assistant, inquired.

“Get my jet ready and let Julian know I will be waiting for his yacht to pick me up in Kingston,” Celeste

grated.

“Yes, ma’am,” Pierce agreed and picked up the phone to call his employer’s pilot.

“And get me the number to this Greg person,” the madam demanded. “I think a call to his slutty operative

calling her back to the States is in order.”

Pierce looked up with a frown. “Is that wise, ma’am? Perhaps you should keep your knowledge of her

to yourself.”

Celeste’s lips twisted and she stuck an exquisitely manicured fingernail in her mouth, worrying the bright

red acrylic between her teeth. Her black eyes narrowed, her perfectly shaped eyebrows lowered, she

nodded. “You are right, as always, Pierce,” she granted. “That would be admitting I believe her to be a

true rival.”

“We know you have no rivals, ma’am,” Pierce said.

“Yes, we do,” Celeste agreed.

Pierce spoke quietly into the phone, giving instructions to the Lear jet pilot. When he was finished, he

hung up and turned around to face his employer. “Anything else, ma’am?”

“Julian forgets himself sometimes,” Celeste stated. “I believe I should have a reminder sent to him that he

owes me more than he will ever be able to repay.”

Smiling slowly, Pierce nodded. “Yes, ma’am. You want me to call Sir Clive for you?”

Celeste waved a negligent hand. “Do what you feel is best, Pierce.” She headed for her armoire. “How

long would it take to get that odious man here?”

“Now that the Concorde has been laid to rest, it will be a day or two, ma’am. Can you wait that long?”

Stamping her foot, Celeste jerked her head, flinging her long raven tresses over her shoulder. “I detest

waiting!”

“I know you do,” Pierce soothed, going to his employer and taking her into his arms. “And I hate that

you have to be denied immediate satisfaction.”

The madam settled into her assistant’s arms, nestling her cheek against his broad chest. She sighed.

“Next to Julian, you are the next best thing, do you know that, Pierce?”

Schooling himself not to stiffen at her words and not to allow the anger from entering his voice, Pierce

stroked Celeste’s long hair. “I try, ma’am,” he said, his eyes hard as blue flint.

“Fuck me,” Celeste commanded, digging her nails into Pierce’s chest. “And make it good.”

He swung her into his arms and took her to her bed, dropping her upon the mattress as though she was a

sack of salt. Though she tried to turn to her side, he jerked her to her back and grabbed the front of her

expensive Parisian gown. With a grunt of rage, he ripped the bodice open—mindless of the sting of her

nails streaking down his forearms.

She fought him like a banshee—cursing, spitting, kicking. His superior strength did not allow her to

wiggle from the bed and his rock-hard body straddled hers, ripping away her undergarments, cruelly

kneading the bare breasts that thrust from the torn fabric of her chemise, his rough hands batted hers

away.

“Whore,” he recited from between clenched teeth. “Don’t you dare fight me, you slut!”

It was a game they played, both reveling in their positions. When he used a scrap of her once beautiful

gown to tie her wrists to the headboard, he pulled the material tight enough to bruise her flesh.

“Please!” she begged, tears gathering in her eyes. “Don’t do this!”

“Shut up,” he growled and lifted her legs so her knees pressed firmly to her chest. He anchored them